


Hands

by myracingthoughts



Series: Darcy Lewis Bingo [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fear of Flying, Fluff, Holding Hands, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myracingthoughts/pseuds/myracingthoughts
Summary: A five-hour delay and a few too many screwdrivers was already a recipe for disaster. Add an attractive seatmate to the mix and Darcy Lewis was bound to make a complete fool of herself.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Darcy Lewis
Series: Darcy Lewis Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927495
Comments: 14
Kudos: 105
Collections: Darcy Lewis Bingo





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for Darcy Lewis Bingo and checks off box R4: Holding Hands.

If Darcy Lewis never saw another airport bar in her life, she could die a happy woman.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the lawless wasteland that was the terminal, stuck in a no man’s land of morning beers and departure boards and overhead announcements. But she was on hour five of a delay that was supposed to be twenty minutes, and the screwdrivers that had become her lifeblood (vitamin C and alcohol were the travel version of vitamins, of course) were starting to lose their appeal.

So much for making it to LGA in time for dinner.

“23D, 23D…” she muttered to herself, scanning the row markers on the plane she was finally able to board.

It was a sold-out flight, even with the mutiny of ticket holders who’d managed to get switched to an earlier one. Her carry-on rolled through the aisle behind her, two steps at a time as she waited for the passengers ahead to slip into their seats.

“19, 20…” at this point, her narration was the only thing stopping her from joining in on the meltdown a toddler was having in aisle 16. The kid had a robust set of lungs, that was for sure.

And of course, there was something already sitting in the aisle seat of row 23. Probably some frequent flyer douchebag who managed to get his boarding priority bumped for their trouble, ugh. Tossing her carry-on in the first empty slot in the overhead bin Darcy could find, she readied her best customer service smile on approach. 

Flies and honey and all that. 

She analyzed her seat mate’s worn leather jacket slung across his lap, wrinkled t-shirt, and sandy blonde hair that was clearly slept-in. He wasn’t bad looking upon closer inspection, even if the sunglasses still on his face barely covered the rings around his eyes. Yep, seemed like the type she’d get paired with on one too many cocktails and no sleep — not that Darcy could really judge. 

She found herself absentmindedly sniffing the collar of her shirt, hoping she wasn’t about to look like a total slob. Frankly, she just wanted to get seated before the nearest flight attendant could suss out her blood alcohol level and kick her off. She needed this plane to get itself up in the air so she could get home.

But back to forming words. Yes, it was generally polite to say those, Darcy realized. Mostly so she could explain why she’d need him to get up and out of his seat. Awkward smile perched on her face, he looked expectantly at her.

“Hi, I think I have the window seat,” Darcy said, nudging her chin towards the open seat beside her row guard.

Brows furrowed he asked, “Are you sure? I think a man was sitting here before.” 

But he stood up anyway, moving into the aisle so she could slide in, biceps flexing under the too-loose shirt sleeves that were doing them no favours. Not that she noticed or anything.

“Oh, I switched seats with him so he could sit next to his new fiancée,” She explained in as level a voice as she could manage. Was it just the alcohol, or was she always this awkward in public? “Ah, young love.”

His eyes followed hers to the front of the plane, staring ahead as she fished out the belt from between the seats. Expression tilted, he still looked at her with a healthy dose of skepticism and a little bit of pity.

“And you believed him? That was totally a line,” he said with a breathy chuckle. “They’re not anyway near unhappy enough to actually be together.”

She could hear the grit in his voice coming out in amusement and the buckle’s click as he sat back down. She wasn’t sure if that gravelly tone was just him or a remnant of last night’s hangover, but she’d take it either way.

“OK, sourpuss,” she scoffed playfully. “I can see why he didn’t ask _you_ to switch.”

His mouth curved into a grin, dimpled cheek revealing itself amongst his stubble. Somewhere underneath those eyebags and jaded bravado was a very handsome man, and Darcy had no shame admitting that as she caught herself staring just a beat too long.

“Well, it’s your funeral. Guess you’ll have to take the hit and sit beside this grumpy old man,” he gruffed, canines flashing in the dim light.

She wasn’t generally for plane conversations, and maybe it was the vodka talking, but his voice was music to her ears. And right now, she’d have done anything to keep it going.

“How do you know I’m such a catch? I could totally be some psycho stalker,” she shot back.

“Nah, I’ve known enough of those in my day to know you aren’t one.”

It sounded like there was a story there, but she wasn’t sure what travel etiquette dictated around nosiness — never mind the effects of a five-hour delay on the typical protocol.

“Well, you’re right. I’m mostly sane.”

“I’m Clint, by the way,” he turned to greet her, pulling his sunglasses off his face and offering an outstretched hand.

She gripped it firmly and shook, watching as his eyes shamelessly took her in from eyes to bust. She wasn’t surprised when his gaze lingered as she introduced herself, “Darcy.”

The flight attendants zipped up and down the aisles closing the overhead compartments and cross-checking. Darcy’s heart started its usual flutter, and she could feel her hands shake as she fished her earbuds out of her purse. It took a few too many tries to untangle the wires, and Darcy let a nervous exhale out.

If she could make it through take-off, she could make it through the rest of the flight.

Well, take-off came and went, but the rattling and jolting in the cabin didn’t let up. Darcy found herself gritting her teeth, looking nervously out the window beside her, only to see fluffy clouds and the reflection of her seat neighbour keeping an eye on her.

So much for keeping her cool.

“I may not have been completely honest with you when I said I was mostly sane,” Darcy huffed out.

“You hate flying,” he replied flatly.

She grimaced, “That obvious?”

“The white knuckles kind of gave it away.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, feeling silly for her overreaction.

His blue eyes softened, and he offered a soft smile, “It’s fine.”

The flight finally levelled out enough for the refreshment cart to make its way around. Darcy settled on ginger-ale, not wanting to let anything else embarrassing slip during the three-hour flight. Earbuds back in, she tried to keep herself immersed in one of the dozen podcasts she’d downloaded for the plane, but she was restless. And as much as another drink might have calmed her nerves, she didn’t want to hang off her neighbour.

Even if her eyes did end up drifting towards him, snoring softly beside her. 

A particularly nasty drop elicited a couple of gasps from across the jet, just as the seatbelt sign flashed back on, and Darcy reached instinctively for the armrest —landing instead on Clint’s hand. Too scared to let go and suddenly thankful he was still out like a light, she held on for dear life.

It wasn’t until his thumb brushed the back of her hand that he realized he wasn’t asleep, eyes firmly planted on her face. Eyes wide, she fought the urge to tear her hand out of his. After all, he seemed to be fine with it… right?

“You OK?”

Darcy shook her head, face hot at being stuck in this compromising moment with a total stranger. Of course, she would pick the one time she was sat beside someone attractive to make a complete fool of herself.

She should have had that drink; at least drunk flirting would have been _fun_.

“Hey, we’re going to be fine. The kids up front will make it down the aisle, don’t worry,” he soothed, but she could hear the smirk on his face. “That is if they’re even actually engaged.”

She managed to squeak out a laugh, “T-they might be by the end of this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“People do stupid things when they’re scared,” she explained, shooting him an apologetic look and hoping he got the gist.

He looked down at their still clasped hands and squeezed a little, “Reaching out for help isn’t stupid.”

“Having your life flash before your eyes at every plane rattle is, though,” she cringed.

He laughed a real laugh that stretched from the corners of his eyes and patted her hand.

“A couple more glasses of whatever swill they’re serving onboard would probably help with that.”

And though it was too late for that drink, and her face was still warm from embarrassment, she untangled their hands and watched the sky in silence as the plane’s course levelled out.

Something about being stuck in the air, tens of thousands of feet above the ground, made Darcy nostalgic. And as dramatic as her life flashing before her eyes sounded, she had spent those fleeting moments of turbulence running through every scenario and analyzing every aspect of a life lived to its fullest. And while there were things she was proud of, memories she cherished, Darcy quickly realized there were still some missing pieces. 

Something about the comfort her seatmate had offered her earlier stuck out, some connection or flutter she couldn’t quite place. And before she knew it, her mouth was running before her filter could catch up.

“Do you have any regrets in your life?” she asked in a small voice, tucking away some excuse about alcohol hitting differently at this altitude. Just in case she’d overstepped.

“Oh, we’re getting all philosophical now, are we?” he gave her a questioning look as if gauging whether she was serious. “No, I try not to — usually by telling myself that it wouldn’t matter anyway. You?”

“I always pictured myself having some ridiculous, cheesy wedding,” she admitted, waiting for him to follow through on a dig.

“Like My Big Fat Greek Wedding or Elvis officiating in Vegas cheesy?”

Her lips quirked up as he played along, “A little bit of both, to be honest.”

It looked like there was something he wanted to say, something he was holding back, but his smile faded into a smirk a little too quickly, and blue eyes lost a little spark. 

“Weddings are overrated anyway.”

She could guess where his mind was going before he’d even said the words.

But she asked the question anyway, “Divorced?”

“Yep.”

Maybe this was her opportunity to play shrink, far be it for him to have the monopoly on talking someone down from their embarrassing in-flight admission. So she settled into her seat, ignoring his knee resting comfortably against hers and put on her best doctor voice.

“Was it the wedding that was the problem or the marriage?”

Clint rubbed at his nose and tried to hide the resulting grin at some memory he’d probably never admit out loud.

“Barely remember the wedding if we’re being honest,”

She smiled at his lighter mood, “Maybe that was part of the problem.”

They traded stories and snipes at the soon-to-be-weds up front. And by the time they touched down on the tarmac, her voice was hoarse from the laughter and the teasing. She had figured out his plan hours ago, getting her mind off the flight so she wouldn’t work herself into a panic attack. But she appreciated his kindness. 

And to her credit, she only reached for his hand again at landing, so she’d call that a win. 

They traded phone numbers and promised to stay in touch, but she was sure it was all surface level. The kind of gesture you offer when someone overshared in a way that might haunt them at night, awkward encounters burned into their brain as they tried to fall asleep. 

She had a lot of those already, and she considered herself pretty experienced in that arena.

He took her bag down from the overhead bin, setting it down on his former seat. His thoughtfulness and memory impressed her, unsure if she even remembered where she’d put her bag in her post-screwdriver haze and flight stress. 

“Anyway, thanks for the hand,” she said with a knowing smile.

He offered her another one of those smiles she wanted to photograph, frame and hold onto forever. Something about the dimple in his cheek sent her heart into off-tempo pitter-patters, but she tried not to think about it too hard. 

“Anytime.”

Darcy didn’t see Clint at the luggage carousel —he probably didn’t check a bag— but she managed to make her way past the construction and foot traffic. Darcy parked herself in the longest line-up she’d ever seen, the taxi queue outside Laguardia snaking around pylons. It was then that she felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

_Catching a ride into the city by any chance? Wanna share a cab?_

She spotted him a dozen people ahead, waving slightly to catch her attention. A smile stretched across her face against her better judgement, but fuck it. 

Maybe flying wasn’t so bad, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, my hands slipped? My target for this work was 1,100, but I had one of those weird productive runs where this managed to get itself written in a few hours. Late-night writing does weird things to my brain.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! All comments and kudos are loved and cherished.  
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://pasmonblog.tumblr.com/), where I post comic book content, work updates, and behind-the-scenes commentary.


End file.
